Elegy for a Pilot
by Ed007
Summary: The sequel to "Five Year Sunglasses." It's been four years since he saw her. It's been four years of searching in vain. Broke, tired, and alone, Yuy makes a decision that changes the course of everything forever.


He was done. Through. Tired of caring. He didn't want to do it anymore. A sick part of him wouldn't let him quit though, and he had tried harder than anyone else ever would. That part kept him looking for a sign, kept him willing to go on anything. And it was pointless. Optimism, pessimism, it had all become obsolete. At the end of the day, no matter how many leads he tracked or cities he searched, he was still a twenty-six year old, unemployed bastard, living in a shithole apartment, clinging to a memory even God had forgotten by now. In a vain attempt to shut out her voice in his head, he'd become a full-time drinker. Loaded up on pills between smokes, to keep her face out of his dreams and thoughts, but it didn't work. It never did.

All he did now, tonight and everyone other night, was stare out his window, mumbling drunk prayers to Christ or Buddha or Shiva. He didn't care who answered. It could be the homeless man in the alley across the street for all he cared. He just needed something, anything.

The street lamps put on a one-trick light show as sirens and passing traffic composed the soundtrack to a scene he had grown unbelievably accustomed to—poverty. He'd spent it all searching for her, the one thing that he was convinced could save him, the flower in his hell, the light in his hurricane. Wasted months in the Sudan, endless weeks in India, all for her. She was the reason he'd lost _everything_ in the last four years. She was the reason he was like this, fucked and tired and alone. Heero Yuy, the cavernous human shell.

He finished a beer and tossed the bottle into a pile of countless others. He watched as a piece of scrap metal streaked across the sky, down through the atmosphere, bursting into flames, a hard-worked creation melting into nothing in seconds. Or maybe it had been a shooting star. He lit a cigarette and traced his finger against the soot on the window. Who cared? It all disappeared in an instant anyway. One second she's there, the next she's off being a mother and a wife to some asshole who took her away without even breaking a sweat. He popped the cap off another beer. But that wasn't the kicker. That wasn't even the one-two punchline, no. It was that she didn't even care. Not about how he felt, about the shattered glass of a life she'd left him to crawl through. She just wanted him to wither up and die, perfectly happy to leave him out in the cold like some fucking dog.

The thought soured the alcohol in his mouth and sent his temper past boiling. He threw the bottle against the wall, the sound of it breaking the prelude to the sound of splintering of wood as he kicked a chair across the living room floor. But he wouldn't stop. Not until he found her. Not until he made her life so goddamn miserable she begged him to end it, to put the bullet he'd be saving for himself in her head. She'd scream. Everyone else let her die, had let her turn into a ghost, but not him. She was the one memory he intended to take back. She was the one thing he'd never let slip away. Couldn't. What would be left then?

The alcohol took over, and he stumbled backwards, his stolid features now vulnerable and pale. He hadn't eaten in days. The shock of the failure had been too much. He had been so sure it was her, so sure this week would be the week he found her, that the woman he'd been chasing for seven months was _her_.

But it wasn't. And it was killing him.

The boy turned man fell over onto his couch. All his money, faith, gone. He was going to have to stay in this shit awful town for at least another six months to try and recover what he lost. Fix things.

Heero closed his eyes. Four years. It had been four fucking years, and he wasn't any further than he'd been. If something didn't happen soon...

He was a wreck, and he knew it. There'd been a time when he had been a god, when he had been at top of and nothing could have stopped him. No one. But now-- And he couldn't take it much more. If he couldn't get out himself, he'd take the shot that would.

He needed to sleep, to clear his head for awhile. Be positive. Even if it seemed like he'd accomplished nothing, he'd doing some things. He was older now, wiser. His boyish ways had morphed into moody appeal and charm. He'd been through the ringer. He'd been kicked in the ass and came out still standing. Heero shook his head. Bullshit. It was all bullshit. There was nothing anyone could do. It was all useless. If he slept, maybe it would all be better in the morning. Nothing would matter. Or he'd start it all again. Get it right this time. New clothes, new job, and new goals. Maybe he'd make it work.

And when he opened his eyes, it was new. All of it on a fresh page. A new headache, new broken furniture, and new cigarette burns in the carpet. The shattered beer glass dazzled in the sunlight spewing through the blinds, and he struggled to pull the disintegrating curtains closed. The hangover hit him hard as he made his way to the bathroom. The lights were too strong. He threw up twice. He showered in the dark.

It was past twelve when he finally stepped outside his apartment, the city bursting with usual life, all the different races, faces, and opportunities. The wind was brutal, and he readjusted his jacket to protect his neck, leaving his face to bear the brunt of the chill. It was December again in San Muerte, and Heero knew it would be August before he left.

_Goddamn August_.

He dug his hands deep into his pockets. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad. Maybe he'd find a halfway decent job. Maybe he'd get into a healthier no-smoke, no-drink routine, stop hating his life. Maybe those months would just fly by. Maybe San Muerte would even turn out to be a nice place, somewhere he could call home. He watched the people walk through the streets, their smiles sprawled across their faces like murder victims, and realized that was bullshit idealism.

Heero glared at a window treatment overstuffed with toys and presents and plastic reindeer. Christmas. The most pointless time of the year.

He walked through the heart of city, taking the same route he did every day. A left and then right, two blocks down, one street up. A small shop with a faded facade and busted rain gutter sat on the corner with a broken sign spelling out "Ferguson's Library" in old English-styled letters. A small bell chimed as Yuy opened the door, and an old man with a holiday vest looked up with an eager smile. It disappeared the moment he saw Heero.

"Oh. It's _you_." He said as he looked back down, sticking "sale" stickers on books with duct taped spines. Heero hated him.

"Is Anya working?"

The old man ignore him, threw a handful of books onto a cart. Heero bit the inside of his cheek. There had been a day when he could have killed this man. Easily.

"I can just scream her name."

The old man let out a frustrated groan. "Always coming! Never buying!" He narrowed his eyes and pointed towards the back of the store. "She's in Travel."

Yuy said nothing as he walked passed him, into the shop. The layout was simple and small, with three steps that led into a gallery of twenty full-sized, double-sided shelves. It possessed a "cute sardine feeling" as Anya put it. Heero thought it was just cramped. He made his way past a dozen bookcases filled with things he would never read, never open, before he saw her with her headset on, moving in a way that was more a strip tease than a dance. There were books on the floor and a few in her arms that she occasionally tossed onto shelves with closed eyes, her hips moving seductively to the beat of whatever she was listening to. If Heero hadn't known her, talked to her, he might have found her attractive.

"Anya," but she didn't hear him. The music was loud and fast. She was singing the words under her breath.

"Anya!" Heero shouted, but when she started beating time on her thigh, he knew she hadn't heard him this time either.

He bent forward and tapped her on the shoulder, and as books fell to the floor and his nose slammed against the first of a thin yet alarmingly powerful Russian girl, he had little time to prepare himself for the blinding pain that shot through each nerve and muscle in his face. Heero stumbled backwards, stunned, throwing his hands up in an attempt to stop any blood from staining his last clean shirt. Anya's mouth dropped. She yanked the headphones down around her neck and grabbed onto his shoulders.

"Oh Jesus Christ! I'm so sorry, Cyka!" She tilted his chin upward. "I didn't break it did I?"

Heero swallowed the drainage in his throat. "Well, I don't know. I can't feel it."

Anya rolled her eyes. "I hit you hard, but not that hard."

"Did you hit yourself?" Heero looked up at the ceiling while she wiped the blood away with a tissue. For all her strength, she was being beyond gentle. Graceful. He cleared his throat. "Where'd you learn to throw a punch like that? Communist school?"

"You're such a baby. I thought you used to be in the Army."

"I thought you were a woman."

Anya stifled a laugh. "Cyka."

Heero shook his head. "Russian."

He didn't move as she inspected her damage, dabbing the blood softly. He'd learned from experience it was better to let her take care of him than fight it. She was a nurturer, a tall and pretty girl. Her long, slender fingers combed over his face with a elegance that was as sensual as it was refined. There was nothing between them save friendship, but still, whenever they touched, no matter the reason, there was always an undeniable chemistry, a strange silence that covered them both. They mocked and nagged each other, accepted their relationship for what it was, but, in reality, if things had been different, who knew?

"I think you'll live," she said as she patted him on the cheek, turning to pick up her books. Heero rubbed his face.

Anya Korvchek was someone he'd found by sheer accident. He'd met her two years ago when she'd been working at a hotel. A co-worker of hers had promised to have something for Heero, a lead, but it turned out to be a scam. A joke. He remembered how she'd stopped him on his way out, _Excuse me, but, I couldn't help but overhear you,_ gave him the name of some contacts in the city, people she said she knew could find things, people. And as the days went on, Heero found himself at the hotel more and more, asking her questions, taking her advice. She became his confidant, a replacement Duo in a way. She stood by him through all his failures, picked him up when no one else would. She was like the sister he never had, the mother he never wanted, and the lover he'd never take, and going against his normal grain, Yuy gave Korvchek the only thing she'd ever asked of him, unconditional trust.

But regardless of how beautiful she was, she had a dark side that was anything but. The people she'd been, the lives she'd led had all been toxic, harsh, and the afteraffects still lingered in her voice and eyes. Abusive father, abusive boyfriends, drug addictions that still flared from time to time. She'd been a call girl once. She thought it was funny to joke about it. Heero never did.

"What the hell are you doing here anyway?" She asked.

Heero squeezed the edges of his nose, feeling the blood congeal. "Thought we could get coffee."

Anya laughed at him. "You and me?"

"Yeah."

"Coffee?"

"Glad you can repeat everything I say."

"Since when have we ever had 'coffee'?" She put a book about Tibetan architecture on the shelf.

"Jesus, Anya, I just wanted some goddamn coffee." Heero moaned as he threw his hands over his eyes. She always had to push him to his limits of conversation. She always had to make him talk. He hated talking. "Count it as your Christmas present."

"Such holiday cheer." Korvchek mumbled as she put the rest of the books on the shelf. She walked out of the gallery, and Heero wondered as he followed her, why he bothered waking up at all. Anya wrapped herself around his arm as they walked out the door. He wanted to tell her to stop, but didn't. There was something about the way she held onto him, something about her being there, although he didn't know what.

Snow began to fall, and there were sidewalk carolers and holiday decorations on every corner, in every window. It was impossible to escape. The three blocks to the only cafe in walking distance, Anya chatted on about something or someone. Heero didn't listen; he kept his eyes of the wreaths and red socks, the laughing children, the spend-hearty parents. He hated them. He hated the small and overpriced cafe they were in, with its deep red walls and storybook windows looking out into the street. He hated the metal chairs they sat in, beside one of the glass portals to the outside world. He even hated that she ordered an espresso with cream. That wasn't even coffee.

"In a city less lavish than a garbage dump," Anya said as she lit a cigarette, "I can spoil myself and enjoy a fancy coffee."

"Wasted money." Heero swallowed half his cup in one gulp.

"It was a Christmas present, if you remember. And you should slow down. You'll end up with heartburn."

Heero rolled his eyes. "What else is new?"

Anya looked down. "You didn't find her, did you?"

Heero's stomach tightened. He stared out the window, reliving the moment he'd realized it hadn't been her. Devastation wasn't even close. He didn't answer her, just took another drink.

"I'm sorry." She whispered.

"I should have realized it sooner. My fault."

"It's nobody's fault, Yuy."

A lump rose in Yuy's throat. He could still smell her perfume and how it mixed with the ocean, the way her ivory skin felt against him as she hugged him before she left. "Yes it is."

And if she hadn't known where to look, Anya would have missed the glassiness that swelled in his eyes. If she hadn't known what to listen for, she would've missed the inaudible crack in his voice. She wouldn't have been able to understand, feel what he felt, mourn what he mourned. But she did. There was a pang just below their breast bones, a soft and subtle hurt. They could feel it rise up through their chests, into their throats, and though they both knew they'd felt the same losses and felt the same hate and pain, neither wanted to look at the other. Neither wanted to be seen so vulnerable and violated, as they were sitting in the chairs by the window, faintly aware that the world was passing by.

Anya's cigarette burned itself out, and they didn't speak for a long time.

"You aren't a failure, Yuy." Anya smirked. "If I didn't know you, I'd think you're nothing but a drunken stalker."

Heero was sullen. "Maybe that's what I am."

"And maybe I'm nothing but a whore."

"You're not a whore." Heero said sternly, his eyes fixed on her like crosshairs.

She reached out and took his hand. "And you're not a failure."

The soft flesh of her thumb glided over his knuckles, the only thing keeping hin in reality, from slipping away into his mind. Locked vaults with thoughts and memories he'd hidden away where no one could find. Or could she? With her hands and her face and her kindess? Heero pulled his hand away. He wasn't sure who he was thinking of.

"My cyka," Anya hissed through a row of pristine white and single-file teeth. Yuy watched as she pulled out a compact and began checking her make-up, reapplying what had worn away during her workplace exertions. She really was beautiful.

The snap of her compact echoed throughout the small cafe as she looked down at her watch. She took the last sip of her cold espresso and smiled at the man across from her. "Ready to go?"

"Now that I'm broke because of your four dollar cup of coffee, yes, I'm ready to go."

Anya threw her hands in the air. "And a Merry Christmas to you too."

They walked out of the cafe, arm in arm again. On the sidewalk, Anya let go of Yuy and began digging through the war zone they had dubbed her purse. "Speaking of broke," she said, pulling out a small piece of paper and shoving it at him, "I found you a job."

Heero scoffed and pushed it away. "No thanks."

"What?" Anya's mouth fell open. He could tell she was shocked.

"The last job you found me involved security detail at Chucky the Rat's, which, I might add, was single-handedly the worst job of my life."

Anya frowned and put her hands on her slender hips. Her long, dark blond hair blew in a gust of wind that brought with it a thick patch of snow. Yuy thought she looked like an angel.

"Hey, you said money, and I found it."

Heero started to walk away. "I'll pass, Korvchek."

"This is totally high-class!" She yelled after him, but he kept walking. She moaned in disgust before running after him. Heero could hear her black boots clacking against the pavement as she met his stride. She shoved the paper in his face. "Rich guy's looking for bodyguards."

In act of Christmas benevolence and generosity, he pretended to give a damn, "Why is he looking for those?"

Korvchek looked like she'd been sucking on lemons for hours. "Why wouldn't he?"

Yuy covered his face with his hand. "Look, I appreciate the gestu--

"Take it." She interrupted, shoving it in his hand. "Besides, you got me a cup of coffee as a Christmas present. I'm not really in the mood to be more forgiving than this."

They exchanged looks, both with their own intensity and meaning, but in the end, it was clear who had won the argument.

"Fine." Heero said, pulling out the paper and sticking it in his jacket.

Anya squealed. "Trust me! I have a good feeling about this one! Something big, yeah?"

"Yeah, no 'yeah'". Heero said as he closed his eyes. "And besides, that's what you said about the last one too. And you know what happened with that." He looked at her. "Rats."

Anya ignored the comment and wrapped her arms around his skinny frame. Heero returned the gesture slightly. He wasn't the hugging kind no matter how much time had passed or how humbled he'd become. It had never mattered to Anya though. She'd always hugged him regardless.

"I've got to go." She said, "I don't want Ferguson to get all bent out of shape."

"I don't think you have to worry."

Anya turned round, walked backwards. "Yeah, he probably hasn't been bent in years."

Heero stared at her, dumbfounded. "I meant the time."

Korvchek stopped and gave a nervous laugh. "I meant that too."

"Right." He said as he watched her turn the corner and walk away, disappearing into the jungle of concrete and snow. Heero stuck his hands in his pocket and let out a heavy, tired sigh. He knew, honestly knew, if things had been different, he could have really loved her in a way he would never understand.


End file.
